For Love of a Daughter
by Phantomrose93
Summary: Can the one person ever to love Erik fearlessly, unconditionally, save him from himself as his world crumbles? Erik's Daughter. She must learn to live with who her father is; murderer, suffering lover, broken, schizophrenic. Please R
1. Delight and Despair

**Ok this is my first_ story _on here, so please read it and be nice! i have a ton of beginnings to stories, so I' will probably post them eventually, but tell me what you think of this one and review if you want me to continue. I own nothing except my imagination and Bella Rose Nasreen. That little sweetie is all mine and Erik's!!**

Her voice haunted his dreams. He knew she didn't love him, but he also knew she couldn't resist him. The sliver of hope had equated to more than a few restless nights on his part. So here he sat, another night of composing through his fatigue. Composing lullabies to relax himself, but nothing had helped. He had learned long ago that while his music may captivate and entrance every other human, he couldn't lull himself to sleep even if he wished to. Every dream began and ended the same way, so why should he put himself through the ordeal at all? He felt his power drain into the keyboard beneath his fingers.

Another dream. Another agonizingly sweet, horrifyingly vivid dream that became a nightmare the moment he woke. She sang for him, only for him, her voice unbearably crisp and perfect. She smiled at him, unwavering her song as she gazed at him with eternal love and commitment. The nightmare of his life came forward just before she spoke the words he longed to hear more than anything else. In all these months, not even in his dreams had he heard these words. They were painfully close, yet just beyond his grasp.

He woke with a vengeance, tearing his meticulously crafted mask off his face. He raised his hand to his forehead in despair that he had been forced to wake. He rose stiffly from his organ, cursing once again that he should have moved to the comfort of his bed for all the good it had done against the beloved yet loathed dream. He ran his fingers reverently over the ivory keys before retreating to his bath. He bathed quickly in the icy water to help distract him from his fiery longings. He applied the thick menthol paste to his face slowly, slathering it on in stages, wincing and hissing as it burned the sensitive and inflamed skin. Then it cooled and numbed the area to his relief as he replaced his mask.

He returned to his beloved organ and played one of his previous compositions to relax him. Then he emerged to watch the progress of the opera. As usual, artistic chaos was ensuing. The ballet dancers were not quite up to par according to the Madame Giry. The jumps were simply not high enough, the steps not graceful enough, the turns not perfect enough. She clucked at each and every ballerina, especially her own daughter, although she was the one making the least mistakes. The choir practiced in varying chords and the actors practiced their lines. He watched Miss Daae carefully. She was the only one he placed any hope of perfection in. She started a little flat, much to his dismay, but redeemed herself quickly, singing the ballad perfectly. His eyes brightened as he watched her. They would work tonight; perhaps he would take her down this evening, have her practice one of his newer pieces. Nothing would please him more, but he wondered if he had the strength to return her. Her beauty and angelic voice was a curse to her at times like this. But he would make himself take her back, even though it killed him. He watched them all day, silent and unmoving. She sang as lovely as ever, and he sensed that she felt his eyes upon her at all times. When they had finished she returned to her quarters. He followed gradually through the roof beams, eyeing all the happenings within his opera house. Most of them he ignored, but he couldn't help but to scare one of the ballerinas out of her wits when he came across she and her lover. He whispered frightening things to her and she abruptly left, straight on to the dormitories, leaving her lover behind with only a bottle of rum as his companion. Erik continued forward to his beloved's quarters, perching behind the mirror just in time to see her straighten her silken bodice for lessons. Her eyes grew wide for a moment as she looked to the ceiling, pressing her hands behind her back.

"Are you ready, my child?" he asked through the slender back of the mirror.

"I am ready, my Angel," she replied innocently, closing her eyes.

"We shall retire tonight below, where your dreams of richest music may come alive." He enticed her simply, hypnotically with his voice alone she followed him through the mirror once again. He took her hand and led her far below. She followed him humbly, singing to his hearts content at his every whim. But she was entranced. With every song he stripped her free will and sense away, she was moldable clay with a single tune. He taught her all and indulged the both of their senses in music that was ambrosia to his ears. He lay her down once more on the bed and retired to his piano with but a smile on his face of contentment. He would return her in the morning, why ruin this moment of happiness? His long cold heart lived in her presence; he could feel it beating beneath his fingers. He played the loveliest, the happiest of tunes his fingers could recall, daydreaming of things he well knew would never happen. But nonetheless, he couldn't help but wish for them all the same. He watched her sleep as he played, her silken hair barely brushing her temple, her rose mouth parted beautifully in sleep. He fought the urge to kiss her, however brief and gentle he knew it would be. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. He felt his heart rise to his throat in happiness, in pure contentment, and drifted off to sleep beside her. He did not dream that night.

The next morning she woke in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. She tried desperately to remember, but found she couldn't. Then she heard the most heavenly of music play, and she remembered her angel. She went to him quickly, desperately, needing the music to fill her up like nothing else could. She sang with her whole heart beside him until she could sing no more. Then he stopped and turned to her, gently kissing her hand.

"Good morning, my dear," he whispered. She looked up at him, beaming,

"Good morning, my Angel," she whispered.

"We must return, my child, else you will be missed," he smiled at her while dying inside, "follow me,"

"Lead me, oh Angel of Music," she sang at his very whim. Oh, the joys and trials of perfect control. But he returned her nonetheless, before anyone's notice, just in time for breakfast and lessons. He watched her the rest of the day before returning to his lair in anger and frustration. Why was it that the one person he had complete and absolute control over was the one person he hated to enslave, the person he longed would chose him of her free will? Why was he cursed to love the unattainable, yet tangible beauty? Why?

He threw dishes, books, papers, candles; anything and everything he could get his hands on when he returned to the dungeons of his black despair. He was murderous.

Finally he stormed out of the lair, through the catacombs, up to the world above. Tonight was a hunting night, a night for a reckoning.


	2. An Interesting Night

**Please R&R, worked hard on this!**

He lurked around every corner, searching for the object of his fury. He viewed a few drunkards sloshing about in the alleys. Disgusting. A girl roamed homeward, a dagger hidden in her coat. Not that that would protect her from him. She didn't know how close she stood to death. But he overlooked her, only whispering a hint of where to go to avoid trouble. She was frightened out of her mind as she looked around blindly to find the voice that chilled her spine. He smiled. At least she had listened as she ran away into the dark night. But his anger grew. He looked over the gamblers and the cheats, the drunks and the hustlers, the thieves and the whores. But he didn't find what he sought. His fury grew tenfold every moment he had to postpone his murderous intentions. Then he heard it. Softly at first, then louder, just barely perceptible under the hubbub of evening. No one else heard it, their senses were too dense for such a sound to be audible to them. He moved toward it instinctually, the soft desperate cry he had longed for all night. He let his anger and fury wax until his eyes grew blurred in rage. He saw the child, crying desperately, too young for words, as a man strangled it, beating it mercilessly. He crept silently behind the assailant and gripped his throat. This would be long, and slow. Such a man surely didn't deserve a quick death. He sliced his throat and banged his head against the wall, letting the warm blood seep between his fingers and run down the wall. He put all his effort into killing this man, and he watched his victim's eyes widen in horror and agonizing pain as he let out his final breath. It was over almost too quickly. Erik wiped his hands on his shirt and covered the child in his cloak.

_What am I going to do with you?_ He wondered aloud, noting the bruises and cuts on the child's body. She couldn't be more than a year or so old, no more than an infant. Look at the mess his rage had gotten him into! Of course he couldn't just leave her here now! He sighed in frustration. He daren't take her to an orphanage lest he be seen.

The child whined softly, and he instinctually rocked it in his arms, shhh-ing it softly as he thought. Her soft fingers gripped his collar as she looked up at him silently. He looked down at her tiny face, her beautiful, bright green eyes. She looked right on back daringly, and he smiled.

"I suppose, just for a few days until I figure something out…" he whispered, tucking her into the crook of his arm, "But don't cause any trouble, or I'll put you right back where I found you!" he said sternly, only half serious. He was taken with her already. She fell asleep in the crook of his arm as he ventured silently back down into his lair, the dead and mangled body already forgotten in the alley.

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Madame Giry was braiding her hair softly down her back, just about to turn the lights out when she heard someone clear their throat.

"Erik! Must you lurk so? A simple knock would do at this time of night!" she scolded him half-heartedly, barely suppressing a wry smile.

" I need your help," he said quickly, straight to the point. But he winced. He despised asking for help.

"What is it?" she sighed. Knowing Erik, this had to be big or else he wouldn't have bothered asking her help. She gasped in surprise as he lowered his cloak. Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn't been this-this child he held in his arms.

"I- I found her in the alleys, abandoned no doubt," he stated frankly.

"You can't possibly mean to- to keep her!" she looked at him horrified, his silence offering his guilt. "Let me see," she held out her arms for the child. He reluctantly handed her over to the woman, who immediately woke the child gently.

"Her eyes are bright, her nose is clear, mouth is pink, good, oh, but these bruises, oh this child has seen it I do declare, she seems clean enough, but goodness knows she will need to be changed." Erik wrinkled his nose in disgust as she removed the child's clothes and dumped the soiled rags. She bathed the child silently and wrapped it in a clean blanket. She cuddled the child close to her, warming it and letting it sleep. "And how do you mean to take care of her?" She hissed venomously. "To raise her? Do you mean to subject her to the same scorn and exile that you yourself were unfortunate enough to tolerate? The Phantom's Child; forbidden forever to view the outside world? You are a fool if you think I will permit this, Erik, a fool!"

"I didn't come here to be chastised," he reminded her wryly, "but I do need your help. And by the way, do I even need to say what would happen if you were to tell anyone of this? You imagine my restraint is far stronger than reality Madame."

"Your threats lost meaning many years ago, Erik," She remarked "But anyhow, if this child is to survive, she will need constant watching. That means no lurking, at least for a few months, and she will need diapers, food; tiny pieces so she doesn't choke. Clean clothes. I will see what I can do. Let her sleep with me tonight, until a proper bed can be arranged-"

"No- she might be heard, or seen. I won't take that risk."

"Very well, you must keep an eye on her then, so she doesn't fall off the bed. Keep her warm, if she wakes see if she will eat something, something soft. Return here in the morning and I will see what else we need." She muttered nervously to herself beneath her breath as she returned the child to the maestro-turned-vigilante-murderer.

She closed her eyes briefly; about to say something to him, but in truest Opera Ghost fashion, he had vanished in the second they were closed. She gave a sigh of disgust and went back to bed, muttering to herself about the sinful hands this poor child now rested in. She went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of gin and a glass. This was going to be an interesting night.

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Erik held the child close to his chest the entirety of the trip down. She folded her little fist around his shirt, gripping it firmly. He firmly removed it from her grasp once they got to his dark sanctuary. He lay down on the bed slowly, cradling her in his arms. He watched her sleep curiously. She was so tiny and fragile. How had he ever imagined he could care for her? He hadn't the slightest idea how to care for her! But he would try. He knew what it would be like if he took her to an orphanage. He shivered at the very thought. He had been to orphanages before. Cold, needy places they were, with not enough food, blankets or love, to go around. He could at least do something for this child. At least watch the papers for any sign of the missing child. Surely someone must be looking for her! He certainly hadn't rescued her for the sake of condemning her! He could at least do his best. Until her parents could be found. But deep in his heart he knew he couldn't give up this chance so easily, this chance for unconditional love. Someone who would never imagine him as anyone other than who he was, someone who had grown up with his face, who wouldn't cringe away at the sight of him. Someone who he wouldn't have to manipulate for affection. And he had found her. And he didn't plan on letting her go. She snuggled deeper toward his body heat unconsciously in her sleep. She was his, and his alone. No one would ever take her, his daughter. His Bella Rose Nasreen.


	3. I remember

**Please R&R! I worked really hard on this! I own nothing but my imagination and Bella!**

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I remember, young as I was, the night She broke my Father's heart. Betrayed him with a single kiss. He loved her beyond any possible love, more than he loved even me; there was not even a competition. She didn't even know about me. But I knew more about her than anyone besides my father. Every night he would tuck me in and tell me stories of a beautiful girl who sang like an angel. He told me that if I worked hard, and obeyed him, someday I could be like her too. I had seen her, and heard her before, Father brought her home on the rare occasion, and I would watch from the shadows silently, no one aware I was even awake.

That night, the night of his final downfall; he had dressed meticulously, his shiny black wig perfectly in place. I was never quite sure where he went. It distressed me deeply for a long time, but he always came back, and I started to trust him again. He usually left at night, to try to avoid distressing me, I thought, after he had tucked me in, told me a story, and I had fallen sleep. Rarely, I would wake and find the whole place empty, but with breakfast on the table. Sometimes he just left in the middle of the day and didn't come home until later that night. It wasn't unusual, so of course, I took no attention. But right before he left, he bent down, kissed me and told me that the pretty soprano, his beloved Christine, was coming home, that she could be my Mother. He left me in the alcove, my own little room where no one would ever find me, for my own protection, and closed the door. I was silently contemplating this idea of having a mother. I had never had one before, not that I could remember. Madame Giry was very kind to me, but she was too strict to be a _real_ mother. Suddenly I heard the yelling, the singing, the crashes and crying. I ran quietly from my room and watched from the shadows, silent as the grave. I didn't understand it at the time, not one bit, except the dreadful crying, the begging songs playing over in my head.

And Father was not wearing his mask! Perhaps that was what frightened me most. Father always wore his mask. Always. I had only once seen him without it. Oh how he had raged at her when she dared remove it! That was one of the first lesson's I learned; Father's mask must stay on. Period.

Christine was wearing the most beautiful of dresses, pale white, simple, floating white satin and a veil. I had only been allowed to see this dress once before. I had always envied her the dress. And Father's love. How naïve I was! The pain on her face was pure anguish. _Why is she so sad-and afraid?_ I had wondered. Fear echoed on her face and in her eyes. _Father won't hurt her._ He seemed as sad, if not more upset than she did. _What happened?_ I longed to run up to him and ask him, to see him smile, to tell them not to be sad, but I didn't dare. Father was frightening me, even in his sadness. The fire in his eyes told me something was coming. He grabbed her wrist and put something in her palm, closing her tiny fingers over it. I cocked my head in curiosity. She walked past him, pulling a rug from over one of the mirrors. I gasped silently. Rule number two; all mirrors are to be covered. Father hated his reflection. Something in what she sang made him hang his head.

Suddenly Father's voice changed dangerously as he looked over to the gate. A man stood there, dripping wet and panting. Father almost laughed, embracing Christine and taunting him. She struggled out of his grasp. He just laughed and opened the gate, walking slowly toward the man through the knee-deep water. The gate closed behind him, and Father threw something over the man's head and wrestled with him, binding him to the gate. The man coughed all of a sudden and Christine screamed. I gasped in fear. What was happening!

Father was beyond any anger I had ever seen him in, he was insane with absolute rage! He threatened and yelled and taunted and pulled on a rope attached to the man. He coughed again and again before I realized he was suffocating, Father was choking him! He turned to Christine. All three were yelling in song, arguing, it hurt my ears and it frightened me beyond any belief. I wanted to run, but if Father saw me in his rage… I wasn't sure what he would do. Tears dripped down my face slowly. But then Christine sang the loveliest song I had ever heard, and began slowly walking toward him through the dark water before she slid a tiny ring onto her finger and kissed Father, crying, passionately. I didn't understand. I watched, my mouth wide open. What had happened here? Then Father was crying. The confusion…was terrible. I longed to know what had happened, why everyone was behaving so insanely, but I didn't dare move yet. Then father sang, crying, yelling to her. She ran away from him to the man against the gate, kissing his face and untying him. But then she returned. She whispered something to Father and pressed something into his palm, looking regretfully back at him as she stepped into the boat with the other man. _Where is she going?_ I wondered. He sobbed out the most heartbreaking voice I ever, and would ever hear. Four simple words, no one on earth ever heard more anguish.

"Christine, I love you!"

But she was gone, she and the man, and I never saw her again. My father cried and raged, breaking every mirror, every surface he could get his hands on. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me then, I was so afraid of his temper, I sat on the floor and cried. I needn't have feared. I should have known my father would never hurt me, but being only 5, some naivety is assumed. It was a very long time before I ventured out. He never came to fetch me.

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**I know its not my best, but I really wanted to upload it, and I've been editing and editing, and honestly, I will probably rewrite it in future, I just don't have time for rewriting whole chapters right now... I mainly want to edit and upload what I've already written first...Thanks for reading, and keep an eye out for the next chapter!!! It's coming soon!**


	4. Away

**Please R & R!!!! Thanks! I will update again soon! With longer chapters!!**

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I believe it was my stomach that encouraged me to venture outside of my room. Everything was chaotic, nothing stood intact except his piano. I looked around nervously. No sign of my beloved father. Not one single sign except the debris of his last rage. It was hours before he returned. And he was not the same.

His eyes were bloodshot, he smelled of wine and blood. His hands were covered in it, dark sticky redness that frightened me with its vivid brightness against his chalky pallor. I barely dared to look at him as tears filled my eyes. He brushed my cheek briefly before sitting at his piano and playing a tragically melancholy ballad. I just stared. But I was hungry.

So I went to the kitchen. There was only a single apple, so I tried to cut it in half, to act like a big girl. As I pushed with all my might, the knife slid and sliced my finger viciously. I whimpered for a moment, frightened, trying not to cry. But blood was pouring over the counter. So I ran to Father, holding it tightly as blood dripped onto the floor.

"Father! Father!" I cried, bursting into terrified sobs. "I cut my finger!" I shouted. He didn't respond. I gripped his shirt, smearing blood on it, and yanked. He turned lethargically and looked at me. Then his eyes grew wide and he swore mightily. He actually ripped his shirt off and wound it around my finger, pressing hard. It hurt terribly for a moment then went numb. He whispered to me to calm down, and he took me upstairs to Madam Giry.

She looked at my finger and looked at father, she accused him of many things that I cannot remember. But she poured something on my cut and wrapped it up in a bandage. It was deep, but clean, so it healed quickly. I still have the scar in fact.

But Father was not the same man he had been before that dreadful night. He barely acknowledged me except to make sure I ate, and to cut things up for me. He was an empty body. He didn't speak, not once, for many weeks. I couldn't make him happy, no matter what I said or did. He left for many hours, and always came home drunk and disheveled, sometimes with blood on his hands. If Madam Giry spoke to him, I didn't know, but I barely saw her anymore, when I did, he cleaned up and appeared as if nothing had changed, but it was plain he had given up all will to live.

I noticed that he was putting things in a box. Everything. I asked him why, many times I asked, but he never replied. Not once. Then one morning, I woke to find my entire room gathered up. As soon as I woke, the first thing I heard him say in many weeks was we were going "away". I asked where. No response. So we gathered the smallest, most important things and loaded them into a carriage loaned by Madam Giry. And we left, never to return. I cried silently as Father sat up front and guided the horses, veiled heavily and hidden in the thick fog. I would miss my home, my Maman Giry. But perhaps Father would be happy again once we left all the memories of her…

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**Sorry about the shamefully-short length!! I just couldn't help it with the natural breaks already there!! Thanks, please review!!!**


	5. Dead

**Thanks for Being patient! I just wanted to get in a little bit from Erik's perspective! Maybe I'll alternate POV ****to kinda give them both a chance to voice what happens... I don't know. Let me know how you like it, R & R!!!**

**I own nothing but my imagination and Bella!!**

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To say I was a wreck when Christine left would be a severe underestimation. I became a monster, a bipolar being. I tore apart the entire place after the search party had left. I physically had to restrain myself so that I wasn't tempted to chase after her and kill the horrible whelp she had the audacity to choose over me. I left for hours at a time, slaughtering criminals of the most terrible sort. Rapists, murderers, child abusers, kidnappers, they all became my prey. Night after night I had devised excruciating means of torture and murder. I covered my face and bought mass quantities of alcohol, infusing my rage and numbing my pain.

Then I died. Physically I decayed little by little, refusing nourishment for weeks at a time, Mentally, Emotionally, Psychologically I had given up all thought hope and effort. From every angle I had perished. Because I was not eating, and was barely drinking, I didn't have to stand or move at all to use the bathroom. I alternated between drunken rage and vigilante murders, to trying to starve and numb myself to death. The only thing that kept me from giving in to my suicidal strike against the world's cruelty was Bella.

If she hadn't cut her finger, I might have died right there. I had nothing to live for, or at least, that was what I thought was the case. I had forgotten her. She must have been in her room for hours, maybe a day even before I realized she even existed.

She woke me up briefly. I would never wish my daughter harm, but she might have died down there if she hadn't sliced her finger so deeply. It forced me into action. It made me react immediately. It made me show myself to Madame Giry. And even though I was still dead inside, I no longer considered suicide an option. Who was I that I should take the life of such an innocent girl with my death? She had no way to escape the lair, and Madame Giry certainly couldn't take her in, she would have to cease all production and ballet teaching. That would put the whole opera in ruin. That simply couldn't be allowed. So I kept myself alive. Barely. I still left for long periods of time to take out my anger and pain on far less innocent individuals. I to this day am not sure if she knows I killed more than four people a week, or that the people I killed were not innocent bystanders, but serial killers, like myself, and vile lechers like the one who had tried to prey on her so many years ago. But I had to leave. Every night I still dreamed of her. I couldn't cope, I couldn't stay alive much longer in that place before I would take my life or take out something on poor Bella. So we left. I borrowed a carriage from Madame Giry and moved us to an old property that I had retained through means I shall not disclose here. There were still a lot of problems, but because I was separated from the ability to kill and drink uncontrollably, I was forced to find other ways to cope. I sat there day after day for years on end, waiting for something to click, for something to break me open so I could move on. It never came, not until Bella was nine or ten. Not until I heard her voice for the first time since it had grown. There was potential in that voice, even as she half hummed in her room. It made me think. I had to hear it again. I had too. It made me forget, for even just a moment, I felt alive again...

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**=) Ha ha! scared you with the title a bit, huh? lol! Thanks for Reading! Next chapter's on it's way!**


	6. Le cher petite

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Hi =) Thanks to all my readers (especially those that take the time to review!) out there! I'll try to keep pumping these out, but its starting to get busy, so please be patient! Let me know if there is anything at all that should be changed, I take others opinions very seriously!!! I own nothing except my imagination and Bella!! Please R&R!!!

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I was sadly mistaken if I thought he would change. His only comfort still lay with his piano, and he spoke only very rarely. I learned quickly not to disturb him, I learned to make my own food if he forgot or was lost in his music. We lived in the country, quite close to town, so I made small trips to the town, careful to be invisible and silent as I purchased necessities. I had also learned quickly how to deal with people at market. I had to, Father was no help, and he certainly couldn't go into town, with his masked face and disturbed mindset at the time. So the story was that I lived with my ill grandfather, who was too weak to even stand, much less make it into town. It held for a while, and if anyone offered to help, I politely declined, excusing that, 'my grandfather didn't like visitors, or anyone to see him so weak,'

I couldn't really understand what it was that had crushed my lively, genius Father so mercilessly. I blamed Christine. Oh, I blamed her for years, I loathed the girl, she had caused the destruction of my beloved father, and she was a demon in my mind. It was several years before my father so much as glanced at me again. I had everything I needed except Father's affection, and as it turns out, this is what I craved more than anything else.

I think I must have been ten, perhaps even eleven, when my father first called for me again. It was the middle of the night, and I was exhausted. But I heard him calling my name all the same. It had been many months since I last heard his voice, and I practically ran towards him. I quickly gained my composure, and stepped lightly and carefully around him despite my enthusiasm. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair uneven and greasy, his mask askew, but I leapt at the chance to be near him, to even be acknowledged was an unexpected treat.

"Yes, Father," I replied sweetly, smiling at him shyly and obediently. I was starved for his gaze, for his ears, despite my exhaustion.

"Bella,' he rasped, his voice weak and rough from lack of use, "Bella, sing that lullaby I used to sing to you, sing to me _le cher petite_. Calm your Papa." He reached out for me and held me close. I was numb with astounded bliss, but how could I refuse his only request, if it would make him feel better? So I sang as well as my tired voice would allow, I tried so very hard to please him, and he fell asleep with his cheek on my head as I sat in his lap. Soon I drifted away too.

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I woke with her on my lap. For the first time in years, I hadn't dreamed that horrible nightmare. I looked down at her, gently sleeping against my shoulder. So this was what it took to be happy. To be truly happy. This was the key to starting again. If only I had realized it sooner. But then, at what cost to her was I freeing myself. I couldn't keep her awake every single night, she was just a little girl! She would crack and shatter at the immense self-control and work it took to train her voice. And I would never forgive my self if that happened. But I needed it even as her naive, untrained voice needed practice, it soothed me. And now that I had realized its potential, I couldn't live without it. Call me what you will, and judge me as you wish. I would never wish my daughter harm. Never. But how could I take care of her when I wasn't yet sane myself? The shadows of night whispered things to me I never would wish on my enemy. Even then. I stared off into space, listening to her heartbeat and gently brushing a tender curl from her tiny face to distract myself from the whispers as I ever so gently carried her upstairs to her room. She parted her mouth in sleep as I lay her head on the pillow and kissed her forehead softly.

I stood there for a moment, watching her sleep, all the while thinking of all the reasons I didn't deserve her. She deserved a father who could be there to care for her, a man who could let her go when the time came, a man who she needed, not who desperately needed her to survive. She deserved a real Father, not a ghost of a Ghost. She deserved a mother. And I could give her none of these. I couldn't comfort her as a father should, I couldn't be a strong figure in her life. I couldn't release her when she was old enough to fall in love. And I had failed in trying to give her a mother. I went downstairs, and, not being able to find the alcohol I so craved, I went outside. The stars were nonexistent, and the new moon in its absence failed to lighten my mood. As I returned indoors and settled into my accustomed place in front of my piano, still as furious as before, an enlightenment revealed itself. Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps I could change, in time. I would never be what she needed, but I could at least try. And as I fell into my doomed sleep again, the voices drowned into silence, replaced by the sweet siren song of the one I had lost many years ago...

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**=) Review please!**


	7. Beginning of the End

**Sorry about the long wait! Schools ending so that means FINALS!! I plan to add on to this as much as possible over the summer, so hopefully that means more frequent updates!!! Thank you for your patience and please Review! each one makes a difference to me, so even if its a tiny note, I'd really appreciate the support! Thank you and Enjoy!!!**

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When I awoke the next morning, I was back in my bed. I cried silently. Had it all been but a lovely, but intangible dream? I got out of bed and went to investigate. Father showed no sign of the night before. He still sat at the piano as silent and unresponsive as ever.

I cried silently in despair in the corner, watching him and wishing it could have been true. I went to the kitchen sadly and began to make breakfast. Subconsciously I had made enough for two. I sighed and slipped the omelets onto two plates, even though I knew it was pointless. I went in slowly, silently placing his breakfast onto the table next to his piano. He didn't acknowledge it. I sighed and returned to the kitchen to eat my own. It was to my wonderful surprise and joy to find that when I returned, the omelet was gone. But the glass still remained half full of milk. So I replaced it with a glass of water, which I later noticed he had drank outside of my sight. It gave me great joy that he was eating again. Perhaps this might be the beginning of the end of his solitary depression. I hardly concealed my glee that entire day. I simply couldn't be still!

I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and went outside. The wind shifted through the trees ever so gently, nice and peaceful, relaxing. _Today will be a good day_, I thought to myself, picking a couple apples from the tree out front, _yes, it should be a very good day_. I hummed and sang and danced about outside and in the kitchen. It was very silly of me, but I was a child then, and thought little of such things…

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When I awakened the next morning, I almost cried out in frustration. It was so _agonizing_ to have to relive that night over and over again. It broke me. I could hear the buzzing all around me and feel the migraine before I even raised my head. I resisted the urge to call Bella down. I couldn't do it, not twice in one night. Not to her. So I sat there lifelessly with my hands suspended over the keys, waiting for inspiration to strike. Then I heard her come downstairs. I didn't move, lest I frighten her. I was slightly embarrassed about the night before. I had robbed her of much-needed sleep. She watched me, a pained look on her face. Maybe I had hurt her more than I knew. I hung my head in despair and shame as she trudged into the kitchen heartlessly. I heard her making something. She sighed. I frowned. What had I done? Suddenly she tiptoed in and cautiously set a plate next to me with an enormous omelet on it. I resisted even as my stomach protested. I was hungry, but I didn't deserve her kindness. I turned my head away, rejecting them. But what if that offended her? What if I hurt her feelings by not eating them? That would be cruel, one transgression directly following another. So I scooped up the eggs slowly and ate them. They were absolutely delicious. I frowned in confusion. Where on earth had she learned to cook? Most certainly not from me. I glanced at the glass of milk next to the eggs. I refused it simply out of common sense. I hadn't eaten for several days, and anything too rich, or too much at one sitting would make me sick. I returned to his piano, waiting again for inspiration to strike.

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It was to my wonderful surprise and joy to find that when I returned, the omelet was gone. But the glass still remained half full of milk. So I replaced it with a glass of water, which I later noticed he had drank outside of my sight. It gave me great joy that he was eating again. Perhaps this might be the beginning of the end of his solitary depression. I hardly concealed my glee that entire day. I simply couldn't be still!

I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and went outside. The wind shifted through the trees ever so gently, nice and peaceful, relaxing. _Today will be a good day_, I thought to myself, picking a couple apples from the tree out front, _yes, it should be a very good day_. I hummed and sang and danced about outside and in the kitchen. It was very silly of me, but I was a child then, and thought little of such things…

When I returned inside I sliced a small pie up that I had bought the day before and left a piece of it on the table for Father, smiling lightly as I did so. I silently went upstairs and read for a while. The previous owner, an old scholar whose family had sold the house thoughtlessly after he moved away for his diminishing health, had left behind the library and the house, in astonishingly good care. I never found out how my father had acquired it exactly, to my knowledge, he had had no money to speak of until he had resided at the Opera Populaire. But however we had received it, I was glad we had. The library ran almost the full length of the house, wall to wall and floor to ceiling with books of all genres and types. It kept me sane in those silent afternoons, and I frequently fell asleep within its depths. I read a little before returning downstairs for my supper and pie. Then I retired for the night. A few hours later I woke to the sound of his voice again. I almost shrieked with delight. It hadn't been a dream! I quietly slipped on my robe and went downstairs.

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**Thanks for Reading! I'll try to get the next one up fairly soon this time!! Review!!**


	8. Change

**Alright, here's the deal with For Love of a Daughter. I have seriously hit a major wall with it, and since practically no one gives a flying crap whether it continues or not based on the reviews, I have taken a holiday from it for a while. Until I see some reviews or comments that suggest I should continue, I'm not going to put myself through the time and effore to fight through the wall. Sorry, but the fact is, no one cares anymore. The views go down by more than 140 with each chapter I write. It's not worth it if no one is reading it. Maybe if I get inspired with it or people randomly start reading I'll continue it, but right now, no. So that's basically the plan. If you have an issue with it, let me know and maybe I can figure something out. Here's the final chapter for now.**

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"Father?" I addressed him softly, barely holding back my delight. He beckoned to me as he had the night before.

"Darling, please sing to me, sing me something sweet so I can rest. I complied once again, sitting on his lap and singing a soft gentle lullaby to my dear Papa until we both were asleep. I woke the next morning in my bed. This time I seriously wondered if it had been a dream after all. How is it that my Father, who has barely stood in more than a year, had managed to lift me and carry me to my room? He was still a fairly young man, but all the same, I was no longer a small child. This pattern continued every night for several weeks. Every day Father's health seemed to improve a little bit more, the color came back to his sallow cheeks, his gaunt face became a bit healthier on the one side, he began to wash himself, but he still spoke very little.

But then, I woke one morning and he was standing by the window, watching the sunrise. I gasped in surprise and delight, covering my mouth to silence the sound. He turned lethargically and looked at me, his eyes red from exhaustion and most likely alcohol as well. He looked back at the sun and sighed deeply, raising his hand slowly and beckoning me.

I moved slowly towards him, happily but cautiously. He placed his hands on my shoulders, whispering,

"You don't deserve this," quietly. I wasn't quite sure what he meant so I looked up at him.

"You deserve a better life than the one I've given you," he whispered in my ear. I didn't know what to say so I remained silent. After a while he removed his hands and backed away from me. I looked back at him forlornly; them impulsively ran over and hugged him tightly.

" I love you, father," I whispered up at him shyly, cautiously gauging his reaction as he stiffened at the physical contact, drawing himself away and looked down.

"I love you too, sweetheart. More than you know." A single tear flowed down his face. Maybe, just maybe things would be ok.

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Little by little Father began to improve. Slowly he started standing and walking, still silent as ever. But it was a start. I kept to myself, but at his very whim I came running. As he had been deprived of love, so he had deprived me, and I took any bit I could. I sang my heart out every night, despite the exhaustion it ultimately caused me. I noticed quickly that the lullabies turned into lessons.

"A little higher, dear," and " not so much effort, feel the music soak into you," became me constant companions. It seemed that the only way to please him was perfection. The only possible way to make him happy was to sing. Every night I fell asleep in his arms, and every night he took me upstairs and tucked me in. Day and night became other worlds from one another. The moment day broke, he receded into the darkest corners of his mind, cold and undisturbed. But every once in a while he hinted that dawn was coming. One morning I woke and found that he had made breakfast for me.

He sat silent as ever at his piano, staring off into space. But the food sat on the table all the same. Who else could have made it? I smiled to myself and sat down to eat. He stayed where he was, but began to play a song I had never heard before. This also surprised me. I hadn't heard any new compositions for at least a year or so, and each of them spoke of so desperate a sadness and anger, of death and destruction, that I had almost been glad to see them go. But I had forgotten, oh God if I had remembered how he could coax that instrument to play sounds that could entice the very angels to leave heaven, and summon the demons and throw the fiery gates of hell wide open, perhaps I would have begged at his feet to continue. Until that point all I had remembered was the dull, sad, melancholy ballads. But this song; it crushed my joy into dust with the anguish it empowered, but it rose my hopes into the stars in the same breath. I stood, the food on the table forgotten. He didn't look up or acknowledge my presence whatsoever as I stood in the doorway and closed my eyes at the sound. My breath caught in my chest as I moved toward it unconsciously. The song wavered, reaching an ethereal crescendo before fading and shimmering in the air around me. My hands shook and my breathing resumed for a moment as I realized I stood not a foot away from my father.

**I would say review, but no one does that even if I ask them too, so what's the point? As you can tell i'm not real happy about this, but I'm still open if anyone cares about this story. Let me know through review.**


	9. Something Snapped

I took a breath and stepped back as his eyes searched mine. I could feel a blush reach my cheeks as he gave me that cold, calculating look. It softened for a moment as he beckoned me forward again. I came over and he moved over in the seat so i could sit next to him.

"watch," He played for a moment, a simple, slow tune, then stopped, "Now you try." I looked up in confusion, but he just waited. "Again," he repeated the tune so I could pay closer attention to how to repeat it. I played a few notes before hitting the wrong key. His eyes tightened briefly before pointing out the right key. After a few repetitions I began to lose hope, and he patience. He winced every time I made a mistake and the notes became quicker as his vexation grew more and more apparent.

"Are you even paying attention?" he stopped and asked me at one point as I grew near tears.

"I'm sorry!" I cried, "I'm trying!"

"Try harder. From the beginning. Pay close attention to where my fingers are." I watched like my life depended on it, but I still couldn't seem to make it sound the way he did. After 2 hours of close observation and teaching, he bid me leave; "Go," he whispered, "We'll try again later." I stood up quickly, shame coloring my cheeks as I moved back toward the kitchen. The food he had made me sat cold on the table, abandoned in a moment of reverie. I heated it over the stove carefully and spooned the soft porridge and eggs into my mouth, trying not to cry as I ran over the practice in my mind. I had failed miserably in my first lesson, he would never call me again. I had disappointed him, what if I sent him back into his depression. Nausea filled my stomach at the thought. I listened to the music filtering through the kitchen door. It didn't seem sad. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe...

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I stretched my fingers and continued as if the previous disaster on my esteem hadn't occurred. I had mistakenly led my self to believe that anyone, if taught by me, could be proficient in piano in a matter of hours. The years had tarnished memories of being taught how to play. It had seemed a natural action, like breathing, something I had been born with an innate ability. It felt like an arrow under my armor at just the wrong time. If I wanted to teach her, I knew I had to gain a great deal more patience. I sighed at the revelation. At least she could play well, no, perhaps not as proficient as I had been at her age, but she had potential. She definitely had potential...

Once the song had finished, I stood and stretched my back and arms, moving toward the window slowly. I watched the sun warily, a storm seemed imminent. I sighed slowly and returned to the piano, contemplating exactly how I wished to re-teach our last lesson. I flipped through the sheet music and settled on Ave Maria. It seemed simple enough, and once she learned to play she could sing the accompaniment as well. I began playing it slowly, softly to test how I wanted to present it. I remembered my own lessons as a child, the priest who had given me his name. I picked it up quickly, unnaturally quickly. That genius is what invited failure now. I had never _learned_ but, rather, had always known to play, to sing. It seemed ironic, in a way, and I tried not to dwell on it. After a while, I called for her to return for another attempt at teaching her to play. But only silence answered.

"Bella?" I called, "Come here," she had never disobeyed me before, and a sense of dread came over me as I stood. I went in the kitchen as an ominous silence seemed to engulf the room. The rain pounded on the roof, and for a moment, something snapped.


	10. All That Matters

**I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I haven't updated for a really long time, and I apoligize, I've just got a lot going on right now, the last year has been really hard and hectic, so I apoligize, and I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks, and please Review!**

I never meant to distress him, I only wanted to go outside. My shame had forced me out of the house momentarily. I wanted to be outside, where I wasn't tormented by the constant sound of the beautiful heights I would never achieve. So I walked away, faster and faster, but the music seemed determined to follow me wherever I went. I had reached the forest before it began to dim, had gone far into it by the time it was drowned out. I sat on the ground underneath one of the large sycamores and looked on, listening to the natural, forest sounds. It calmed me, even as a few tears coursed down my face. I reflected on my time there. It had been five years since that dreadful day, and he had still not recovered. I still had not given him a reason to come back. But he had improved a great deal, and it gave me hope. Fear that I would fail, and send him back into himself consumed my every thought, worry, and action. I had grown a lot in five years, learned a lot, and yet a huge part was missing as if it had never existed. I still was in desperate need of a mother, of a friend. There was next to no one of appropriate age or demeanor that could fill that hole, and I doubted it would ever be filled. My head ached with the stress of the burdens that God had seen fit to place on me.

The quiet brook bubbled gently as I noticed the sky turning dark. Raindrops began to fall on my head as the tree above shook in the wind. The necessity of returning home bid me stand up just as I saw the sky open up. The gentle rain turned to downpour and the tender breeze to fierce gales that nearly knocked me over. Thunder rolled over the flat plain between me and the house, and only then did I see how far I had strayed. My heart gave a tug. Father must be worried out of his mind! He would be furious! I shivered and broke into a run into the dark recesses of the forest, trying desperately to remember which way I had gone. But the trees all looked the same, and they shook at me violently, mocking my panic as I fought to get out.

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My heart pumped pure adrenaline through my body as I ran with legs that had no strength to run, air flowing through lungs that had no endurance to breathe.

"Bella! Bella! Where are you?" I fought my brain for custody, the voices fought, whispering that she had left me, abandoned me, just like all the others. I fought, telling myself it wasn't true, though there could be no other explanation.

I ran into the forest, straight through the bushes and brambles, cutting my skin violently with every step as the rain poured down on me in buckets. It was icy cold and hard, piercing through my shirt and slacks, even through my thick mask.

"BELLA!" I bellowed, fear clutching at my heart, and fury at my own inadequacy. I broke down, hitting the dirt as tears streamed down my face. I had lost her, my Bella, my beautiful Bella Rose Nasreen. "If there be a God, please, let me find my daughter, let me find my Bella!" I looked to the heavens in defeat, "BELLA!" I bellowed again. I heard a scream from the middle of the forest and went sprinting through the trees. "BELLA!" I yelled, over and over. The screams turned to whimpers as I fought toward the sound.

"Papa! Father! I'm here! I neared the edge of a ravine as her voice became instantly quite nearer that I thought it had been. I looked down and cried in delight as relief cooled my temper. It was replaced instantly with nausea, and fear. Her ankle was at an unnatural angle, and she was covered in mud from her fall. She lifted her head helplessly at me.

"Papa! Thank God! I am so sorry… I never should have left the house… Papa!"

I slid down the ravine after her and held her close, kissing her head, her eyes, thanking God that she was more or less okay. Silently, I lifted her up to her feet and helped her walk along the ravine until we came to a shallow bank. Somehow we made it out ok, God himself only knows how, but wherever we walked led us home.

Later I found the ravine, only it had filled completely with water, and there were no banks, from one end of the forest to another. We should have been trapped completely, and been drowned by the storm but we were not. That day, I found that I no longer doubted God's presence. I do not doubt that it had been Him that allowed us to go home, for the forest, for all its beauty, surely would have had no mercy on us had it been left to its own devices.

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My ankle felt as if someone had taken a hammer and nail to it repeatedly. The smallest touch seemed to send pain spasms up my entire body. I remember looking up at Father on our way home. I couldn't read his face. The emotions could have been anything; relief, pain, sadness, anger, joy; what was he feeling?

I apologized fervently, but he didn't respond, and I feared for the worst. Perhaps I_ had _sent him back into himself.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Bella, I'm fine, I have you back, and that's all that matters."

"Have I hurt you?" He didn't answer.

"That's something I never want to do." I held his hand and looked him square in the eye. His eyes softened and he carried me the rest of the way home, kissing my temple softly. But his expression still remained hidden, though we didn't speak again on the whole way home.


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